


Hear Me

by Immamausoleum



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Big Cannibal Tears, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is just too damn patient, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Smitten Hannibal Lecter, Vulnerable Cannibal Content, Vulnerable Hannibal Lecter, Will is working through his shit, healing together, mute will graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 08:42:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immamausoleum/pseuds/Immamausoleum
Summary: After the fall, Will and Hannibal wash ashore, rejected by the ocean's embrace, and are faced with recovery and survival in the aftermath. Will has to come to terms with his new rebirth, and Hannibal is, for once, letting Will have the reigns. Mute, and determined, with Hannibal's kindness feeling like a brand, can Will ever except Hannibal's patience as genuine?





	Hear Me

Life began once again, on the shore. Carnal and savage, wrought with the certainty of pain and bloodshed. The feeling of lips pressed against Will’s own, a voice desperately calling him to consciousness rising raggedly over the sound of the sea, or maybe it was the sea. 

With chill that ran so deep it could be felt violently shaking his body from the bones outward, salt water and blood was coughed out of soggy burning lungs. Salt and brine and iron.

Then, there was Hannibal. Moonlight resting over his brow and the curve of his cheekbones, glinting in his eyes, frenzied with concern. He’s hunched over Will as if protecting him from the wind, whispering his name repeatedly like it’s the only thing he can remember how to say, some twisted and broken prayer, a mantra.

Will. Will. Will. Will. Will.

There came a scream, so ragged and strangled, torn so raw by salt that it was nearly unrecognizable as Will’s own. It spread along the sand and the waves and the sky, like blood, filling the air with it’s volume. Unbearable horror and despair, grief for the man he’d once been, Will Graham, untainted by the awful bleeding man that was beside him on that fucking cold beach.

It was over. They were alive, and Hannibal Lecter had won.  
They were a curse so wretched that the sea herself had spat them back out, too foul, for even she, with all of her cruelties and magnificence, could not stomach them. 

Once the feeling of arms wrapped tightly around him processes, Will begins to struggle, unable to bear the affection, his wails and screams worsening with weak punches thrown, making contact with Hannibal’s fresh wounds and yet he still is not released. 

Not until he’s emptied himself of every sound and all energy,  
simply slumping against Hannibal and sobbing, clinging to him like a child. Horrible and wretched as it may be, Hannibal is the only one in the world with Will in this  
new life. His anchor. Without Hannibal, Will surely does not exist. He knows that now. 

Not long after, they both stumble to their feet, gripping each other tightly for support as  
they fight to remain standing on the beach sands. Only then does Will realize how much worse off Hannibal is than he, swaying and leaning heavily on him, disoriented and dizzy. 

Hannibal’s jaw is clenched and his brows are creased in concentration and pain.  
Will feels it as if it were his own. It is his own.

He no longer has the choice that he once did, if he ever did. Will decided the moment he guided them off of the cliff, and so Will cannot stand to lose Hannibal now. Truthfully, he’s half convinced the world will cease to exist the moment either of them dies, because surely that’s the only option.  
Will doesn’t want to risk it. 

Stumbling and panting, the two of them find someone’s car, blissfully empty. It’s not hard for Will to break a window, opening the doors and easing Hannibal into the passenger seat.  
It’s been years, fucking years, and Will’s hands refuse to stop shaking, but he has enough control and practice to successfully hot-wire the car and get it running.  
The plus side of growing up in Louisiana poor, and being an experienced mechanic; though he  
never expected it to come in handy like this. 

Once that’s settled, Will turns the central heat on, hoping to thaw them, before getting the thing moving; making it back up to the  
house up on the cliff with determination. 

In the house once more, Will gets the worst of Hannibal’s wounds bandaged after finding excessive amounts of first aid supplies, managing to do the same with his own injuries. 

It’s rushed, and not nearly as good as he could do, but considering the circumstances, he needs to be hasty.  
It won’t take long for Jack to find this place, not long enough. 

He’s thankful for Hannibal’s meticulous care for preparation, as it’s just saved their asses.

Hannibal had mumbled half-conscious on the ride up, just barely awake enough to make it out of the car and into the house with Will, but once he’d hit the couch he’d passed out completely, leaving Will to manage this alone. 

It flashes through Will’s mind that he could have left Hannibal like this, but it’s merely a passing thought, brushed off as soon  
as it arrived. That stopped being an option a long, long time ago, if it ever even WAS an option for Will in the first place. 

Hauling himself to his feet, he watches Hannibal’s breathing for a moment.  
As long as he’s breathing. Will can work with breathing.

An hour is spent searching through the house for anything of importance, grabbing and dressing the both of them with dry clothes found in a dresser.  
He finds nonperishable  
food, water bottles, as well as more well stocked first aid bags. Bless Hannibal and his obsession with being ready for anything, ever prepared. 

Upon the counter, Will hesitates  
when he finds a manila envelope, as well as a set of keys. The keys are grabbed and, on impulse, he stuffs the envelope in the bag as well, figuring its probably important if Hannibal had it set there. 

Returning to Hannibal to shake him into wakefulness, or somewhere near it, he shepherds Hannibal to a car that was parked to the side of the house, obviously  
something Hannibal had left there for them, as the keys matched it. Leaving behind the two stolen cars in the yard, Will pulled out and away from the cliffside home. 

===

It’s days later that they find themselves in a small, shitty hotel. It was hell getting there, full of countless hours of driving without enough rest, but they’d made it; far enoughaway to be safe, for a bit. Will had done most of the work, even searched up how to set  
up an IV, seeing how Hannibal hadn’t been conscious through most of their time since the fall, giving him the right medications intravenously seemed like the best option. If Will lived through that goddamn fall, then he was going to make damn sure that Hannibal would too. If Hannibal died.. Will refuses to prepare for that option. There’s nothing beyond Hannibal dying.

And so, Will waits in silence, dread, and anticipation. He waits.  
When Hannibal finally wakes, breaking from a fever that Will feared he would never return, the first word uttered was Will’s name.

It was rough, raw, and not simply due to the sea he’d been in days prior. It’s nothing like the familiar silk Will is accustomed to, and he despises it for it’s vulnerability. Briefly, far too briefly, Will places his hand to Hannibal’s arm, simply to show him that he’s here,  
they’re safe, alive. He doesn’t speak. 

Hannibal asks for water, and Will provides it.  
Hannibal asks of how their injuries have been treated, and Will points to the bedside table, full of bottles of medications, rolls of bandages.  
He utters not a word. 

It goes on like this for awhile, Hannibal making one sided conversation, asking Will questions, Will answering nonverbally or not at all, shaking his head in a negative when he cannot give an answer.

Eventually, after Hannibal had managed to stitch Will’s and his own wounds properly, as Will had only been able to bandage them before, Hannibal catches on. 

“Not a word from  
you, Will? Is it due to the pain of your injury or simply that you do not wish to speak?” His smile is gentle, just with his eyes, although he is clearly in pain, pale from it.  
“Either are fine.”

“Besides, even as you are silent, your voice still echoes with familiarity within the corridors if my mind, I will not press you, I am here.” His voice steadily grow more faint, his eyes drooping drowsily, morphine that had been ministered through his IV beginning to take effect.

Will doesn’t respond, instead he stands and pulls the blankets over Hannibal further, before returning to his own bed that is only a few feet away from Hannibal’s, facing  
away. They sleep.

The next day, Hannibal gives Will directions to one of the few safe-house properties he owned. Hannibal went through the bags Will had packed, finding the manilla envelope Will had grabbed and smiled, obviously proud that Will had brought it with them, as it  
would help their situation drastically.  
Pulling papers and cards from the envelope, he quietly passed them over. A card that’s linked to some of Hannibal’s funds, as well as an  
ID containing Will’s face but not his name.

After that, they’d left the hotel, unable to stay in one place for too long, seeking out shelter that was permanent enough for them to  
heal completely in before setting out once more. 

===

Once at their destination, they settled into a routine of meals and changed bandages. Medication being taken, and getting more sleep than either of them had gotten in years. 

The house had been fully stocked with even more first aid kits and nonperishable food when they’d gotten there, enough for them to survive off of for the time being, anyway. Will wonders how often Hannibal worked on the upkeep of these safe houses, or if he  
sent people to do it for him. He never asks.

Once well enough to do things on his own, Hannibal insisted on getting to his feet and caring for Will, although he was still by far in worse shape. 

Will doesn’t protest, simply letting Hannibal do as he wishes, helping him where its needed, all the while, silent as a ghost.

Every night, they would both sit near each other  
and help with bandages, keeping their wounds clean and dry, checking to be sure no  
infection sets in.

Those are the only times where the both of them remain in perfect  
silence. In any other moment, Hannibal is sure to fill the quiet, speaking of whatever may cross his mind. 

This time, as he moves around the kitchen, he’s speaking of how he’s missed music.

“Having a harpsichord is sorely missed, three years is a long time to have the absence of music aside from that in my head. Although I’m sure I can one day find another, once we have settled somewhere more solid. I can’t imagine us staying here any longer than two months at most, before we put ourselves at significant risk of being caught.”

Hannibal takes time to stir the pot of canned stew that he’s heating on the stove, giving the pot a brief look of distain before lifting his eyes to Will’s. “I’m thinking we’ll travel somewhere warmer, bring our health up to what it should be, what do you think? I have  
papers lined up for different properties of mine, I’ll sort them tonight, bring them to you come morning to see which you’d most prefer. Or, we could always go house hunting.” He offers, ladling the stew into two bowls, bringing them both to the table.

Will quietly goes to his chair at the table and begins to eat, mulling Hannibal’s words  
over in his head, hating the mental image of Hannibal yearning for beautiful music to fill the air as he sat behind the glass, contained. It shouldn’t make him as guilty as it does, he wasn’t the one who put Hannibal into that cage, but, well.. he might as well have been. 

Things between them have been almost.. domestic. Will can only wonder how long it can last before it all turns to blood. Hannibal still has not spoken to him about going over the cliff. To be fair, Will hasn’t mentioned it either. 

 

After the next morning came, Hannibal was true to his word, bringing papers in after breakfast to let Will read over. 

“Take your time in choosing, Will, let me know when you have decided. We may not have all of the time in the world, but, there is no rush.” He’d said, giving a small fond smile before getting up to clear away their plates, wincing a bit as he did so but pushing through to put them in the sink and begin to clean them. 

He’d stopped taking as much of  
his pain medication, disliking it’s effects to his mind, simply sticking with the antibiotics and a very small dose of pain reliever. Just enough to keep him from being in too much pain to function. 

Part of Will wants to tell Hannibal that he should bring up his dose, that it’s uncomfortable to see Hannibal in pain. Instead, he brings his eyes down to the papers Hannibal had given him and started to read. 

The days pass peacefully and instead of appreciating it, all Will can do is anticipate and fear the day all of this goes to shit. The day Hannibal stops acting as if they can stay soft like this, and absolves him of his past actions through blood. Forgiveness between them is an open wound, as it has always been, and yet..  
It never comes. It’s like waiting  
for the strike, the piercing blade, the sting of it. Instead, there’s something drastically more painful in it’s place. 

Hannibal’s patience.

The tenderness in his gaze, his words. He seems content. It’s agony. Every day Will just wishes Hannibal would lash out and be done with it, wishes Hannibal would hurt him.  
Those things, at least, are familiar.  
But this? It burns like a fever, disorienting him and throwing him off. It’s like a balm to his injuries, soothing everything over, stopping internal bleeding, relief so great that it stings, makes him want to recoil or fight with tooth and nail like some cornered animal.  
Will represses it, bites his tongue, and reassures himself that the pain will come. It always does. 

Hannibal’s kindness continues, simple quiet intimacy that Will loathes. 

“Good morning, Will. I trust you slept well?”  
Over breakfast as he cooks, sparing a glance over his shoulder at Will, smiling softly. 

“I chose this house not only for it’s privacy, Will, but for it’s exquisite view of the stars. Shall we have dinner outside tonight? As a picnic?” Washing his hands, preparing to cook their dinner, watching Will from the corner of his eye though no answer, verbal or nonverbal, comes from the man. That’s fine, Hannibal  
decides for him seeing that he doesn’t object.

“It’s lovely to see you under the moonlight once again, Will, even without the blood, you  
are a vision..” Softly, painfully tender as he looks at Will over their dinner, gentle breeze tousling Will’s curls, making his heart push against his chest. 

“You seem to be feeling much better today, Will, it’s a relief to see the color return to you  
as each day passes.” Sitting across from Will in the living room as each of them read in the quiet of the afternoon, the sun coming through the window to illuminate Will’s features.

In passing by Will Hannibal always makes sure to go out of his way to touch Will, in some small way. Brushing a curl behind his ear, gently running his palm along Will’s shoulder or letting it brush against Will’s own hand, brushing fingertips against Will’s cheek as if to check the wound there. Will hates that he can never muster up the want to brush it away until it’s already gone. 

The nights as they take care of each other, though, are always quiet, yet the intimacy  
between them is more overwhelming than ever. Hannibal’s hands are so very gentle, removing bandages and cleaning the wounds.

Of course, though these nights don’t lack pain, they’re not the kind of hurt Will is anticipating. 

Hannibal takes Will’s arm in his hands, guiding it up or down, to the sides, making sure he’ll have full motion of it by the time it’s healed, and it’s so painful that Will has to grit his teeth to prevent sounds from escaping him. But still, Hannibal’s hands are so gentle, often soothing a palm over his arm when he can tell the pain is getting particularly bad, and Will can’t help but think that he’d let Hannibal do anything to him, absolutely anything, as long as he did it as gently as this. 

Afterwards, Hannibal sets back to adding salve to the stitches and redressing his shoulder, then tending to his cheek.

He removes the bandage and checks over the stitches, soothing salve over them carefully, having Will open his mouth so that he can check the other side of the stitching and make sure no infection has set in there, always thorough. 

Once satisfied, the bandage is replaced, Will has to swish foul tasting antibacterial liquid, and Hannibal’s job is finished, fingertips lingering just longer than necessary at Will’s jaw.  
Then it’s Will’s turn. 

Carefully removing Hannibal’s bandaging, Will refuses to make eye contact as he checks the stitches in both the entrance and exit wounds, cleaning the injuries and adding topical medications, before rewrapping them. 

It’s agonizing, the way he can feel Hannibal looking at him through this, shivering lightly at his touch, breath catching as if he hasn’t been touched in years.  
Will realizes that he probably hasn’t, which only makes this so much worse, so he often does this as quickly as possible, not letting any touch remain longer than it needs to; rushing but still being  
sure to get the job done efficiently. 

Having seen what Hannibal is capable of, and how Hannibal fills a room with the presence of his elegance, his form looking as if it’s been carved of stone, one would  
think that Hannibal would be cold to the touch.  
He is not.  
Will forces the thought away. 

Once his job is finished, both of their shirts go carefully back on, Hannibal having to help Will seeing as lifting his arm with his shoulder injury causes fiery pain, and they stand. 

It’s like this every time.

“Goodnight, Will, may your dreams be kind to you.” Hannibal says, before quietly padding into his own room, across the hall from Will’s, too far and yet impossibly, not far enough. 

Will thinks that his dreams are often too kind to him, as they are often about Hannibal, and kindness from him hurts as much as cruelty, the two things go hand in hand. 

Hannibal could slit his throat in Will’s dreams, and still it would be filled with kindness.  
Sleep, as always, is cruel to him.

===

One night Will comes to Hannibal’s door after they’d completed bandaging each other,  
but not long enough afterward that Hannibal would be sleeping.

With one hand he knocks softly, and the other he holds the papers he’d been given to look over. The one that lays on top of the stack is the one he’s chosen, the address has been circled once in pen to show his decision. 

By the time Hannibal has set his book aside and gotten up to open the door, the small stack of papers is laying at his feet at the threshold to his bedroom, and Will’s door is slipping quietly shut. 

Sighing softly, Hannibal bends with care to avoid straining his  
wound, to pick up the pages. He brings them back with him into his room to look them over. 

Will had chosen the home in Cuba. 

=== 

A little less than a month after that, they found themselves exactly there.

The warmth was blissful on their healing injuries, and Hannibal was relieved to be far away enough from home to be able to go out and retrieve better cooking supplies and food, stocking their pantry and fridge. 

Will kept waiting for the moment to come, waiting  
to see a grotesque and familiar murder tabloid on the news, fresh human meat in the fridge. 

Instead, when he opened the refrigerator doors and felt the coolness seep out and chill  
his skin, what met him were labeled meats, the receipt from the butchers carefully pinned to them just for Will to see.  
For some reason, which Will decidedly doesn’t search for, it makes him angry.  
He closes the fridge.

The more Will resides in the new home, the more restless he becomes.  
Before, in the first safe house, he’d had the urgency of recovering and simply surviving to distract him  
from it, but now that things are starting to settle, it’s becoming harder and harder for him to calm. 

It should be the opposite, really. Hannibal still fills the silence, sometimes with words and sometimes with beautiful music, having held up to his musings of getting another harpsichord. 

The meals are expertly cooked and guilt-free, the weather is blissful, the living is comfortable, and Will loathes it. 

The more days that go by, the more Hannibal’s patience remains steady and accepting, the more Will wants to tear off his own skin and scream. 

 

It takes a nightmare to get Will to utter the first word since the beginning of this new life. 

He was falling, he could still feel Hannibal’s solidity against his own body as he clung to  
him, the only anchor as there was nothing else except for himself, and the monster in his arms, his face buried in Hannibal’s shoulder and then-  
And then he wasn’t.  
He was without anchor, hitting the cold unforgiving waters of the  
rolling Atlantic and he was /alone/. He felt the cold from all angles, crushing him, forcing  
the air from his lungs and replacing it with nothing but salt and blood and the piercing  
feeling that he had lost the only thing that he could not bear to lose, he’d lost- 

“Hannibal!” Shooting up from the bed, his skin coated in a sheen of sweat, he struggles to breathe. His cheeks are streaked with tears as his body shakes, legs tangled in the fine sheets, and he weeps.

It continues like that for a few minutes, Will trying to get himself under control, to get the taste of salt and blood from his mouth, and that’s when he sees.

Hannibal is standing at his bedroom door, dressed in his crimson silk pajamas, looking  
sleep rumpled and concerned, moonlight filtering in through the window making him seem to glow. 

“You called for me, in your sleep.”  
His voice is soft, though a little rough from slumber, it’s obvious that Will woke him. 

Will simply shakes his head and doesn’t respond, breath still a bit erratic from the nightmare as he brings his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them securely. 

Hannibal quietly steps away.  
One would think, that a dream about the loss of Hannibal Lecter, would be a relief. To Will, it’s the worst thing he can imagine. The thought of washing up on shore without Hannibal at his side, lost to the waves, it’s agony. 

His eyes are filled with the vision of Hannibal’s blood tainting the water, his eyes open and looking to Will, ever reverent, even as he sinks. Bubbles rising and dancing in their race from Hannibal’s mouth to meet the surface, it’s beautiful, and Will feels it piercing  
his heart with a sense of loss so overwhelming that he can barely stand it.  
He feels his lungs fill with water once more. 

By the time Will removes himself from his thoughts, Hannibal is at Will’s side, standing next to the bed and gently placing a tea-set on his nightstand, carefully pouring steaming liquid into the teacup.

“Chamomile tea with fresh local honey.” He hesitates, as if he wants to reach out to Will, to comfort him in any way possible, and Will loathes it. 

“I’ll leave you to rest, I hope that the tea may soothe your nerves. Goodnight, dear Will.” 

With that, Hannibal leaves, and Will glares at the teacup as if it’s offended him. In a way,  
it has.

The ocean is replaced with thoughts of teacups and time, shards digging into his fingertips, before coming back together once again, metaphors and intentions all becoming distorted in his head, swirling around and dizzying him. 

He picks up the delicate teacup, taking time to look at the carefully etched designs on them, soft and inviting. He despises it. He sips the tea. 

Once he’s finished the chamomile, Will stands, hating the fact that it had indeed helped to ground him just as Hannibal had intended. 

Bringing the tea set into the kitchen, he carefully cleans out the kettle, and his ire is once again brought to the teacup. 

“Occasionally, I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor on purpose. I’m not satisfied when it doesn’t gather itself up again. Someday, perhaps, that cup will come together.” 

 

Will can hear it clearly, as if Hannibal is standing in the room next to him, repeating what  
he’d once told him years before.  
Metaphors and hints at what their life would have been, what would it have been?  
Hannibal and Will living together in Florence with their daughter? Hannibal providing the meat for them with his hunts, watching proud as they ate knowing what their meal contained? 

Will despises that he aches for it. Oh how his foolish heart desires, though that teacup will never come back together, he and Hannibal had made sure of that. Betraying Hannibal was the worst decision Will ever made.

When Will leaves the kitchen, the tea set is back where it belongs, all together except for one piece. 

The teacup, dashed against the tile floors of the kitchen, is left for Hannibal to find come  
morning.

Teacups and promises broken into shards upon the ground, never to come together again. It’d hold a great amount of irony, Will thinks, should Hannibal cut his feet upon  
them. He won’t, though.  
Will knows this as Hannibal has taken to wearing ridiculously  
posh house slippers in the mornings. Some monster he is. 

Upon returning to bed, the nightmares do not return to him and he is able to sleep peacefully, content. The next morning, the shards of the teacup have been removed, and Hannibal doesn’t say a word of it. The domestic agony continues. 

===

It aches and howls and screams, his desperation and fear, anticipation and dread, it twists and writhes within him, inpatient in it’s knowledge of pain soon to come, it screams at him to take action, to strike before it’s too late. 

Every day it grows, like some clawed beast trying to re-open the scar that’s long since healed on his stomach, craving carnage and chaos. He’s certain that this, this kindness from Hannibal is manipulation, to make him pliant for when the attack comes.  
And oh it will come, of that Will is sure, because it must. There is no other way, is there? Has there ever been? Their forgiveness is blood.

Soon, Hannibal will begin needling him, feeding thoughts into his head and twisting his words, reviving their game and finishing Will off, one way or another. There is no way he truly won on the bluff, with both of them alive, there is no winning, so surely, Hannibal is  
simply waiting.  
A patient and cruel beast hiding behind the mask of his kindness.

Will refuses to accept anything else, were he to do so, he would have to accept Hannibal’s  
love for him, and that.. that is as realistic as a teacup coming together on it’s own. 

===

“Today is beautiful outside, I believe a trip to the market would be perfect. Is there anything you need?” Hannibal asks, dressed casually in a white shirt and deep green coat, tieless and in slacks and soft brown leather shoes. His hair has grown out back to his preferred style by now, and his skin has regained much of the color that had been lost during the years in prison.

His injuries still hurt him, but have made much progress, and soon he won’t need bandages at all for them. Will hates the relief that seeing Hannibal healthier brings.  
He doesn’t respond, and Hannibal simply smiles. 

“Keep our home safe, then. I shall be back soon.” And with that, Hannibal leaves. 

Around two hours later, Hannibal returns. The time Hannibal was away, Will spent on the couch, reading in the warm sunlight that filtered in through the windows. 

That’s where Hannibal finds him on his return, once he’s completed putting everything away. 

“I’ve brought you a gift, Will, If you would want it.” At Will’s lack of response, Hannibal gestures to Will’s bedroom before turning away.

“You will find it on your bed, I hope you like it. I will be making dinner, should you need me.” 

Will narrows his eyes, watching as Hannibal walks into the kitchen and waiting a moment more before glancing down at his book, taking mental note of the page he left off on, carefully closing it and setting it aside.

Once to his feet, Will makes his way to his bedroom, cautiously opening the door. What he finds.. is not what he expected. 

Not that he knew what to expect, a human heart, maybe?  
No. If Hannibal were to get him that, he’d serve it at dinner, not leave it waiting on Will’s bed.

What he does find, is a quality fishing-rod, a spool of fishing string and fly tying gear. Hannibal had obviously known what to look for, the gear was exactly the same branding as he would have bought himself, like the kind he’d had back in wolf trap.. Hannibal had  
certainly had a good look at that back then, Will recalls bitterly. 

Carefully gathering up the  
gifts, Will places them in his closet, and quietly closes the door. He doesn’t come out of his bedroom until it’s time for dinner. 

That night is when he cannot bear it any longer. It’s something to do with the way Hannibal had looked at him over dinner, endlessly affectionate. Or maybe something to do with how he spoke of their meal and the colorful and busy market he’d gone to procure the ingredients for it. 

Maybe, it was the way he’d say Will’s name within every other sentence, soft, the name heavy with reverence, how he asked if Will had liked his gift, explaining that he’d passed by a shop with them and that he’d thought it might bring Will some joy to fish again. Hannibal seems happy.  
Content.

Will can’t stand a moment more of how he wants to believe it true. He wants to say something that breaks through that veneer, makes Hannibal lash out, makes him stop  
being so goddamn kind, so heartbreakingly patient. 

It’s as dinner is winding to a close that he makes his move. 

“Hannibal..you shouldn't have resuscitated me that night. You should have left me to the sand.” His voice is rough and much like gravel due to misuse, just loud enough to be heard.

“Would have saved you a lot of trouble." Even now as he says it, he isn’t sure if it’s true. Does he genuinely regret that Hannibal had breathed life into his waterlogged lungs that night?  
Yes. No. Somewhere in between, he supposes.

But he said it to make impact, to get a reaction.  
He just.. didn’t get the one he was expecting. 

There is no stoic acidity, no cold retorts or metaphors about teacups, no malicious insights.  
Hannibal.. looks as if he’s been gutted.

His eyes are damp as he looks at Will, the expression of pain clear as day, his faced pinched and pale, lips parted slightly. His hands falter where they had been moving to gather their plates.

Instead, they drop back to his sides as he looks at Will as if asking why he would say  
such a thing. There comes no righteous anger, no godlike wrath, no determination to hurt Will back.  
There is simply Hannibal, standing wounded and whispering a soft  
“Is that.. truly how you feel, Will?” 

And it hurts. Much more than Will had expected it to hurt. Much worse than it would have had Hannibal been TRYING to hurt Will. It burns and terrifies him, makes him want to crawl and writhe out of himself to cease the pain. 

This monster, this cruel and cold beast stands before him, weeping, and Will was the cause. Will has brought Hannibal to  
this and now…

Now there’s no denying it. Hannibal’s love. Which Will has sorely abused. Hannibal isn't the monster in this room.

Will takes a step back, and then another, before dashing into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him with shaking hands. 

He feels as if his feet will fall beneath him so he sits on his bed heavily, mind racing. He does not venture out again.

===

The following morning, when Will does emerge from his bedroom, it is quiet. Hannibal is cooking breakfast, but he makes no move to fill the silence, simply moving deftly in the kitchen with grace as always. The quiet feels.. resigned. Painful. 

Hannibal doesn’t stay to eat breakfast with Will, as he had been doing, and instead goes into the living room to read, leaving Will to eat alone. 

Though the meal is exquisite, Will can only manage a few bites before he accepts defeat and puts the rest away for later, too anxious to eat anything. 

It goes on like this for the rest of the day, neither of them willing to break the silence, Will bereft of the sound of Hannibal’s voice holding one sided conversations now that  
he’d become used to it. 

On days where Hannibal would decide to read, he’d often sit  
across from Will and read aloud to him, voice ebbing and flowing with the words being brought from the page.  
Sharing the room as Hannibal reads silently now makes him feel painfully alone. 

At lunchtime, Hannibal rises once again to make them something to eat. It’s not extravagant as things he makes often are, just a simple meal of toasted sandwiches  
made of bread he’d baked the day before, fine meats from the deli he’d come to favor, cheeses and tomatoes, just enough to keep them sustained until dinner.

Again, he doesn’t eat at the table with Will, retreating to his room shortly after he’d passed Will his plate, and again Will can’t bring himself to eat much. 

Will is left on his own to pace and worry over this, full of anxiety and dread and regret, he feels he may burst with it, it’s horrid and seems to have no end, he can’t get  
Hannibal’s teary eyes out of his head. 

By dinnertime Will is nearly maddened with it, and the sound of Hannibal’s bedroom door jumps him out of his thoughts, his head swinging in Hannibal’s direction. 

He looks closed off, as if walls still separate them, stepping out of his room and walking to the kitchen to set upon making dinner. 

Eating is agony, the silence entirely overwhelming, clawing at Will’s insides with every minute and by the end of it neither of them have eaten much of anything. 

They stand to clear the dishes, and together they wash and dry them, putting them away afterward. 

Once that’s finished, Will hears Hannibal take a heavy breath, sees him close his eyes, and then he speaks.

His voice is strained, it’s obviously difficult for him to spit the words  
out. 

“When you are ready, Will.. See me at the fireplace so that we may speak of this.” He sounds as if it’s the last thing he wants to do, but he doesn’t take the words back,  
instead he quickly removes himself from the kitchen and Will’s line of view. 

Will tries not to think that it seems like Hannibal is running. 

 

Will takes his time, procrastinating, trying to gather himself. Once he can muster the  
courage to move from the kitchen, Will takes himself down the hall and into the bathroom, making himself shower in hopes it’ll clear his head. 

He bathes on autopilot, using expensive products to wash his hair and skin, thankful that the water is warm enough that he doesn’t imagine the Atlantic when he closes his eyes against the spray. 

He’s not at all in a hurry to get to the fireplace and speak with Hannibal. Not yet.  
Once the shower is done and he is drying off, Will catches glimpse of himself in the mirror. 

His hair has grown out significantly, he imagines that should he want to, he could tie the  
curls up in a ponytail of sorts. The scar on his cheek is still pink and raised, sensitive, dots on either side showing where the stitches had once been, and he remembers when Hannibal had removed them, how gentle he had been, how delicate.

The inside of his mouth no longer tastes of blood from that injury, finally, and his eyes are lined with dark circles, which is fairly normal. The dark blue of his irises stare back at him, looking hollow and exhausted. The scar from Hannibal’s bone-saw remains on Will’s forehead, white and just barely covered by his dark hair. This is the man Hannibal’s love has created. 

After staring at his reflection for much longer than needed, nearly disassociating, Will moves himself to shave, and to brush his teeth, before retreating to his bedroom to dress himself. 

The only clothing he owns is that which Hannibal had picked out for him, not that Will has any complaints about that, seeing as Hannibal knew better to buy him  
a wardrobe of three piece suits. Still, most of the clothing is more expensive than he’d pay to get, of that he’s sure. He puts on pajamas that Hannibal had bought for him, silk, a deep and rich blue that reminded him of the ocean they’d fallen into.  
Will wonders if Hannibal had thought the same thing when buying them for him. 

Now without anything left to procrastinate with, Will quietly walks to the living room. He sees that the fireplace had been lit with a small fire in his absence, which lit the room with a gentle glow.

The weather was beautiful there in Cuba, warm and inviting during the days, but it was still just the beginnings of spring, and so the nights still brought in a lingering chill. Nothing that the warmth of the flames couldn’t kill off.

Hannibal is beautiful, and somber, Will thinks, watching the light of the fire dance across the man’s fine features. He doesn’t seem to notice that Will is here, or if he has, he hasn’t looked up from the flames to greet him. It’s as if all of his thoughts remain in the fire, like the pages of his psychiatric notebooks they’d burned together. 

The setup is familiar, as Will has thought many times upon looking at it. The chairs sitting across each other in front of the fireplace, reminding him of Hannibal’s office back in Baltimore. It’s been a long time since then, though.  
He idly wonders if anyone was willing to buy it, maybe one of Hannibal’s avid fans did, craving it’s dark history. 

Will walks over to the chair opposite Hannibal and takes a seat, studying Hannibal’s features and waiting for him to talk, as he clearly has something to say. Will fears whatever it might be.  
Not because he thinks it’ll be harsh, no, the day before had taught him better than to think that. He fears Hannibal’s gentleness, his pain, seeing as Will  
feels it as his own. Their suffering is one, it seems. As it always has been. 

Finally, Hannibal looks to Will, shying away from meeting his eye as his fingers pick lightly at the seam of his leather chair, a nervous tick Will had never known Hannibal was capable of having. He'd never seen Hannibal nervous. 

“I have no regrets about bringing you from death.. It is something I wound never change..” He starts off quietly, voice nearly bleeding in with the crackling of the fire. Fragile. “Your life has become very important to me, perhaps even moreso than my own. And so..”

He seems tense, fingers gripping onto the seat as if keeping himself from standing, pacing, screaming, and Will can feel the tension in the air, sees how heavy Hannibal’s  
next words are going to be. He almost wants to put a hand over Hannibal’s mouth, to stop them from flowing free. 

“If it is that painful for you, Will, to stay with me.. then you may leave.”

Hannibal meets Will’s eyes now, and oh how it aches, to see Hannibal’s love for him laid  
bare. “I am doing nothing to prevent you from that.. I wouldn’t stop you. Not anymore.. I would  
rather you leave, than for you to desire death in favor of my company, I wish only for  
your happiness.” 

It keens and howls in his chest, the heartbeat felt in his throat as Will shuts his eyes tightly against the assault of emotions that hit him. The last of his barriers crumble and he can feel it all, Hannibal’s adoration for him, his willingness to sacrifice that which he loves the most so that he may live, and for a brief moment, they’re falling again.

As they go over the edge he can feel the way Hannibal doesn’t even try to fight it, hear the way Hannibal gasps at the sensation of the ground leaving his feet, the rush of the wind and the feeling of Hannibal’s arms tightening around him, holding him as closely as possible as they descend. 

“No.” Will starts, clearing his throat briefly so that his voice may come out clearly, holding up a single hand to show he isn’t finished speaking. 

“I used to imagine you in so many degrading situations…I fantasized about rendering you powerless, making you bleed… over and over it would circle in my head, our eyes meeting as red spilled” Again, he can’t help but feel like they’re in therapy, although this  
is.. much different. Much more personal, and these words have been waiting a long time to be spoken.

He looks to the fire, unable to face the look in Hannibal’s eyes, knowing it’ll leave him unable to speak should his gaze linger there, he’d be swallowed by the depth of  
Hannibal’s regard. 

“Of all of my imaginings… I could never see you suffering, telling me that it hurts. You were always meeting my actions with dignified silence, steady, fearless… I don’t.. I  
couldn’t want..” 

A sigh, fingertips running along the scar on his cheek, scratching lightly as he looks uncertain, shaking his head. 

“I’m afraid… and you’re so goddamn patient..” Will admits quietly, eyes flitting up to Hannibal before going back down.

“ I don’t know what to do with myself in the face of your vulnerability, or your tenderness.  
I never imagined you hurting because… because I never wanted to see you truly hurt.. so… so stop letting me hurt you.” 

Tears come to brim in Will’s eyes, his face crumpling with the weight of his words as he dares to lift his eyes back in Hannibal’s direction, gasping at what he finds there. 

Will blinks in awe as he sees tears stream quietly down Hannibal’s cheeks, illuminated to seem like something molten and precious by the firelight, Hannibal’s lips trembling as he weeps. 

“Hannibal..” he whispers softly in awe, voice catching as he leans forward as if drawn by a magnet, the pads of his fingers coming up to catch the moisture without thinking, half surprised it doesn’t burn his skin.

He looks from the shine of tears on his fingers to Hannibal’s eyes, overwhelmed entirely by this situation, breath coming heavy, vision blurry through tears of his own. 

Seeing Hannibal this wrecked left his heart searing, everything in him begging to take action, their emotions bleeding into each other, heady and dizzying, singular. 

Before the droplets have a chance to dry on his fingertips, Will places his fingers to his lips, tasting salt on his tongue, reminding him again of the ocean in which they plunged. 

He leans in, kissing away the new tears that had come to replace those gathered, the chaste brush of his lips against Hannibal’s damp cheeks. 

“Shhh.. please.. don’t cry” He whispers, putting unsteady arms around Hannibal, holding him as close as possible, as if trying to tuck him into his ribcage, where Hannibal would surely be safe and warm against Will’s beating heart, Will’s breathing lungs,  
Will’s familiar blood ever flowing around him. 

“I’m not going anywhere… I don’t regret you saving me I.. I lied so.. please, don’t cry” 

Once Will’s words fade into the air, the quiet is now only broken by the crackling fire and Hannibal’s shaking breaths as he holds onto Will tightly with quaking hands, nearly afraid of Will shattering,  
or pushing him away. He was so ready to release Will, let him go wherever he would like.

He would have let Will do anything, anything he wished if only to see him happy, even if that had meant bringing him back to prison, killing him, even. He hadn’t hoped for the possibility of this, Will murmuring gently to him over the crackle of the fire, fingers  
stroking through his hair.  
He feels entirely home, finally.


End file.
